


dum spiro spero

by violentdarlings



Series: i shine not burn [2]
Category: Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: F/M, Female Dougal Mackenzie, Magic, Sexual Experimentation, Sibling Incest, Trans Character, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 15:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12867606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Dougal's destiny is intertwined with her brother's.





	dum spiro spero

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the motto of Clan MacLennan: "While I breathe I hope."
> 
> WARNINGS: sibling incest, underage sex, impotence, carrying on the Outlander tradition of magic and witchcraft.

Dougal is six, when she finds out quite by accident that her mother wanted to call her Dougal, if she’d been a lad. Mary, as she is called then, takes to it immediately. Dougal. It’s a strong name, a lad’s name, Dùghall. A name to wear with pride.

She brings it up at dinner that night. Her brother calls her name, absently, his head most likely still full of Ned Gowan’s mutterings about the law, and asks her to pass the salt. Dougal tosses her head.

“I would like to be called Dougal from now on,” she says, loudly enough that most of the hall can hear. Dougal’s father looks at her thoughtfully.

“Ye cannae change your name, lassie,” he tells her. Dougal tosses her head.

“I don’t like Mary,” she declares. “I want to be called Dougal. I willnae reply to any other name.” Colum sighs next to her.

“Dougal,” he says with exaggerated patience, and a thrill goes through Dougal like a bolt of lightning at the sheer rightness of it, “Pass the salt, would you?”

He’s mocking her, but Dougal passes him the salt all the same. Good behaviour must be rewarded, after all, and she never forgets that her brother was the first to call her by her correct name, even if he was poking fun at her. Dougal does not forget.

It takes longer than a single meal for Dougal to get her way. Her mother persists in calling her by her female name for months, until Jacob decrees that if Dougal wants to be a lad so much, she may train with the boys in the yard and be called her boy’s name. Dougal knows her father expects her to quail at the idea of being knocked into the mud, unknowing that she’s been bribing the guardsmen to spar with her for months.

Needless to say, Dougal does not quail. She learns to fight, and then when she is eleven, after a slight misadventure involving an insult regarding a piece of anatomy she unilaterally lacks, she runs away into the night.

Upon her return, she’s relieved at her father’s change of heart, but all the same, she ruins her chances of a good marriage completely when she is fifteen, bedding one of the stable lads in the hay. The lad is sensible enough to keep quiet but all the same, Dougal carries the secret of her torn maidenhead and discarded virginity with her like a shield, like her last defence against going back.

She hadn’t minded the rutting, but it hadn’t been like she’d overheard the guardsmen describe, vast and world-changing. It had been an odd breach, a sudden sting of pain, and a few minutes, if that, of the stable lad panting on top of her. He’d rolled off and finished himself with his own hand, evidently sensible enough to realise getting a bastard on the laird’s daughter would not be good for him. Dougal had watched him, his red face, his hand working his cock, the splatter of his seed and the softening of his prick. All in all, it hadn’t been much.

In a way, she’s relieved, not to have one of those absurd things flopping about between her legs. Her cunt is neat and tidy, all tucked away inside where she doesn’t have to think too much about it, and she’s invulnerable to the male weakness of being kicked in the stones. Having to squat to piss is a bother, but over the years Dougal learns to piss standing up almost as well as a man, if in a slightly different manner.

After all, Colum had been born a lad, and not much good has it brought him.

She remembers vividly her brother’s fall, the long, slow weeks of waiting for him to wake. It might have broken a different child, it might have shattered a lad, but Dougal even at eight has been accustomed to fighting the constraints of her sex, rebelling stubbornly against the certainty of her flesh. There was no reason her brother should not do the same.

And he had woken, but his legs were never the same. Dougal threw herself into her training, into learning to fight and learning to lead men in battle, because her brother cannot, and Dougal will be damned if she leaves her brother in his hour of need.

 

Several months after her fifteenth birthday, Dougal returns from riding out with her father’s men to collect the rents. She washes up in cold water, getting the scent of horse and tack from her skin and hair, and ascends the stairs to her father’s study.

It’s late, but Jacob is still awake, along with Ned Gowan, poring over the accounts. “Enter,” Jacob calls as Dougal knocks on the open door; her father’s face broadens in a smile when he sees her, freshly washed and garbed. “Ye did well this journey,” he tells her. It’s Dougal’s turn to smile.

“Thank ye, Father,” she replies. “Do ye have need of me?” Jacob shakes his head.

“Sleep, lad,” he advises. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

Dougal doesn’t skip down the steps, but it’s a near thing. She can’t be seen indulging in such absurd feminine behaviour, of course, but all the same, she is physically female, even if she’s more likely to be referred to Colum’s brother these days than his sister.

Colum. How could she forget her brother?

Dougal makes her way through the castle to his chambers. His bedroom is beside hers, as it always has been since she was old enough to leave the nursery. He’d be in bed this time of night, of course, but Dougal can still say a brief hello.

She’s so caught up in the joy of seeing her brother again that she forgets to knock, barrelling into his room.

Colum’s not asleep. He’s preparing for bed, which has absolutely nothing to do with why Dougal can’t look away from him, her brother shirtless and undeniably _male_. “Dougal!” Colum snaps, fumbling for a shirt. Dougal claps a hand over her eyes, but peeps through her fingers all the same. Her brother is powerfully built, flat-bellied and broad chested, dusted with black hair that thickens in a line down towards the waist of his kilt. “Get out!” Colum roars.

Dougal goes, extremely confused. She hasn’t seen Colum bare chested since he was naught but a lad. Surely one’s brother isn’t meant to look like _that_.

The thing is, once she’s started thinking about it, she can’t stop. Colum is sensitive about his bent and frail legs, Dougal knows, which is why she goes out of her way to act as though he is no different to any other man. But now that she thinks on it, she’s never heard of Colum tumbling a maid or a kitchen lass like so many of the other boys at Castle Leoch are wont to do. The laird’s heir has to be discreet, true enough, but Leoch is not large; Dougal should have heard a whisper of it, a laundry maid giggling to a kitchen one about the laird’s son and his big –

They certainly wouldn’t be saying it about Dougal, after all. Dougal is without a leg to stand on in that department.

Maybe, she considers, Colum’s just shy. Maybe he doesn’t like the thought of a lassie seeing his bare legs, twisted and maimed. Maybe he just doesn’t ken what to do.

Luckily, Dougal is the smart one – well, not exactly, but all the same, she kens well enough how it works, and she’s seen her brother’s bare legs more times than she can count. He will be her laird someday, and it is her duty to see him appropriately prepared for the task. And there is nothing Dougal is unwilling to do for her brother; she would kill for him and die for him, defending their home, defending his honour. Dougal is Colum’s eyes and ears, his legs, his sword.

She will not let him go into battle unprepared.

After she has made her decision, Dougal wastes no time whatsoever. That night after dinner, when Castle Leoch is slowing down for sleep and her brother is closeted in with Father talking about the recent journey to collect the rents, Dougal sneaks into his room. She’s barefoot, but still in her kilt and shirt, her hair unpinned from its usual short clasp at the nape of her neck. Dougal peers at herself in her brother’s cracked looking glass, eyes the wild russet curls and the strong Mackenzie face, the hint of bosom underneath her shirt. She tugs it down a bit until the valley between her breasts is just peeping out, bites her lips until they’re red, and settles down to wait in his sheets.

Colum comes along soon enough, but Dougal had been out riding most of the day; she’s weary. She drifts into gentle, soft sleep, floating on pleasant dreams, with the scent of Colum everywhere, as reassuring as sliding into a warm bath.

The door creaks when Colum pushes it open. Dougal cracks open an eye open, sees the back of her brother’s black head as he sits down heavily on the side of his bed, pulling off his shoes before grunting to himself a little as he rubs his mangled legs.

Dougal pops her head up out of the nest of blankets she’s coiled up in. “Good evenin’, Colum.”

Colum curses fluently and jumps to his feet, wincing a moment later from the hasty movement. Dougal feels a pang of regret. She had never intended he hurt himself. “What… by Christ… are ye doin’ in my bed?” he asks, his eyes travelling up and down her body, registering her unkempt appearance. “Why aren’t ye dressed?” Dougal sits up, crosses her arms over her chest. If it has the secondary effect of bunching up her breasts so they appear fuller, that is an unintentional but welcome result. Colum’s eyes dart down to the fullness of her cleavage, before he turns pink in the cheeks. Dougal smirks.

“Ye’ve been remiss,” she informs him. “The future laird cannae go to his marriage bed a maid. Ye’ve got to know what tae do with a lassie.”

Colum listens to her words, takes in her appearance, and puts two and two together with alarming speed. “Ye cannae mean –” Dougal scowls.

“It isnae my idea of a wonderful time either, brother,” she growls. “But some things must be done for the good of the clan.” Colum is red in the face.

“Ye’re my brother!” he says, clearly horrified. Dougal arches an eyebrow.

“Technically, I’m yer sister,” she says dryly. “Do I have to flip my kilt up an’ show ye my cunt?” She plucks at the hem of her plaid; Colum puts his hands up in entreaty.

“Not necessary!” he nearly bellows. Dougal frowns.

“Shh,” she tells him. “Ye’ll wake the servants.” Colum’s eyes are wild.

“Wake them then!” he cries. “Ye’ve lost yer mind, comin’ in here and lyin’ in my bed like a _whore_ –”

“That’s not necessary,” Dougal objects, now starting to get a little offended. “Ye don’t have tae act like I’m tryna steal yer precious virtue, I just thought ye might not ken where tae stick it –”

“I ken where tae stick it,” Colum snaps, his face scarlet. His accent is so heavy he’d be unintelligible to anyone other than a Scot. Dougal knows hers is much the same.

“But ye haven’t bedded with anyone,” Dougal says reasonably. Colum is mortified.

“How do ye ken who I’ve bedded with?” he demands. Dougal shrugs.

“I havenae heard anythin’ from the local lasses,” she replies. A horrible thought occurs to her. “Ye ain’t into _lads_ now are ye –”

“No!” Colum howls, sitting down on the edge of his bed and putting his head in his hands. His feet dangle three inches off the floor, his damaged legs swinging slightly. “I ought to thump ye for that, ye wee bastard.”

“Ye cannae thump yer sister,” Dougal tells him. Colum’s head flies up.

“Are ye my sister or my brother, now?” he demands, his tone dangerous. Dougal shrugs.

“Sometimes I’m both,” she retorts blithely, and walks over to Colum’s door. “Ye ken where I am if ye change yer mind,” she tells him, and skips out the door to the sound of her brother’s cursing.

It’s not that she _wants_ him, she tells herself as she settles into bed, he’s her kin, after all. It’s just doing a favour for her brother, as she does every day; fetching things for him, handing him something out of reach so he doesn’t have to shuffle painfully to his feet. No different to being his legs or his sword arm. No different at all, and if he doesn’t want her help then it bothers Dougal not a whit.

She punches her pillow angrily and drifts off to sleep.

 

It takes Colum all of three days to change his mind. Dougal is coming late to bed, half drunk on the whisky she and Rupert sneaked from the cellar. But she’s clearheaded, clearheaded enough to almost punch him when Colum drags her into his room as she walks past in the corridor.

“The hell are you doin’?” she asks him as he bolts the door behind him. His room is dimly lit, the blankets rumpled. Colum turns to face her, his mouth set in a grim line.

“Ye are just goin’ tae tell me,” he grits out. “Nothin’ else. Ye understand?” Dougal plants her hands on her hips.

“Don’t be daft,” she replies. “Ye need the practical education more than the theory. Ye at least know how tae kiss a girl, brother. Don’t ye?”

Silence. Colum is still sitting on his bed, and he won’t meet her gaze. Dougal eyes her brother, torn between horrified, amused, and pitying, but she lets none of them show in her face. The faintest sign of any one would send her brother back behind his carefully constructed walls. “All right, then,” she says. “We’ll start with that.” Colum’s head flies up.

“Ye cannae kiss me,” he says, sounding scandalised. Dougal shrugs, and plonks her arse down beside him on the bed. Colum is so tense beside her she’s afraid he might give himself an apoplexy.

“Kin kiss all the time,” she informs him. “Isnae nothin’ to be concerned about. Da kisses Uncle Rabbie all the time and no one bothers a whit.”

“On the cheek,” Colum points out. Dougal smiles.

“We can start with that,” she says, and kisses her brother lightly on his cheek. She lingers a moment longer than necessary; a pink flush is already spreading from where her lips touched. “See? Isnae so bad,” she teases him gently. Colum nods, looking away, his throat working as he swallows. When he turns his head back, his grey eyes are black, the iris devoured by the pupil.

“We shouldn’t,” he whispers. Dougal, touched by his inexplicable vulnerability, cups the cheek she’d just kissed with the palm of her hand. Colum leans into the touch like he’s starving for it.

“Ye dinnae need tae be afraid,” she tells him, and touches her lips to his.

Colum makes a low noise like he’s been struck, and leans into her, the taste of him sharp and sweet. Dougal, surprised by how much she likes it, presses back, lifts a hand to tangle in his thick, dark hair. Hell, but he smells good. Like home.

Colum breaks away, his breathing ragged. “There,” he says roughly. “Ye’ve taught me what tae do with a lassie. Are ye satisfied now?” Dougal looks at him in astonishment.

“Ye didnae even open yer mouth,” she points out. “Ye’ve got to use yer tongue. Like this.” She pulls him back by his shirt collar, licks into his mouth, swallows his startled gasp and sets about making him do it again.

A sudden shift, and Colum is laying half on top of her, blinking like he’s not sure how he got there. Dougal laughs and waggles her eyebrows at him. “Do I need tae be afraid of ye stealing my virtue?” she asks, shooting a pointed glance down at his groin. Colum laughs bitterly.

“Ye dinnae need tae fash yerself about that,” he says, but before she can ask why, he’s pressing her back again, onto the pillows. Dougal unfastens his mane of dark hair, slithers down a little until she can nestle his slim hips in the cradle of her thighs. Colum gasps into her mouth, and Dougal devours it, the buds of her breasts standing up, rubbing against his chest as she licks the secrets from his mouth.

She could die right here, happy, under the weight of her brother and the promise of forever.

 

Or so she thinks. What was originally ‘just kissing’ is rather difficult to halt, Dougal finds. The next morning, Dougal comes down to breakfast to find her brother already there.

She’s smiling at him before she even knows she’s doing it. Colum ducks his head and turns pink. Thankfully, there’s no one watching, all too busy shovelling breakfast into their mouths.

All through the day, Dougal’s thinking about it. She gets dumped on her arse while sparring more than once, which is most unlike her. She misses dinner because she’s too busy rubbing salve into her bruises – but, of course, there’s a knock at the door. “Aye?” she calls.

“I brought ye somethin’ tae eat,” Colum replies. “Ye missed dinner.” Dougal sighs, puts her shirt back on, and stomps over to unbar the door.

“An’ it’s your fault too and no mistake,” she tells him as he steps inside, a tray in his hands. His ink-stained hands. “What have ye done there?” she asks. Colum scowls at her.

“Spilled ink over myself, isnae it obvious?” he asks, a bite to his voice.

“Why’d ye go and do a daft thing like that?” Dougal asks. Colum’s eyes warm.

“Probably for the same reason you’re covered in bruises,” he says, stretching out a long finger to poke a purpling bruise on Dougal’s arm. Dougal pulls away.

“Arse,” she tells him, but there’s no heat in it. She eyes him carefully. “I think ye need more practise,” she murmurs. Colum swallows, his throat working.

“I, ah –” His baritone voice cracks. “I suppose it would be wise.”

Dougal smirks.

Two hours later, her lips are kiss-swollen and heavy, her nipples hard buds under her shirt, and her brother is looking at the flower of her cunt, his expression awed, her kilt discarded on the floor. “Dougal,” he murmurs, his voice reverent, apparently too impressed to even try touching it, “it’s beautiful.” Dougal squirms uncomfortably under his gaze.

“Suppose it is,” she agrees warily. “Never really looked at it myself.” Colum is transfixed.

“Do they all look like that?” Dougal raises her eyebrows.

“Are ye askin’ me, Colum Mackenzie, if I go about lookin’ up lassies’ skirts?” Colum turns pink.

“I suppose not,” he mutters. Dougal smirks at him and lets her shirt hem fall, hiding her from his view.

“Your turn,” she informs him archly. Colum breathes in deep, as though steeling himself; his jaw is set like he’s going to war, but all the same, he raises his kilt.

Dougal examines his scarred thighs, the fuzz of dark hair at his groin, and all the way to his flaccid cock. Dougal frowns. With everything that’s been going on, she’d expected at least a bit of a rise. “Something the matter?” she asks him. Colum’s face twists and he turns away, tugging his kilt down. “If ye dinnae want to –”

“It’s not that,” Colum mutters. He can’t meet her eyes. “It doesnae work.” Dougal frowns.

“I hear that’s not uncommon, sometimes,” she ventures cautiously. Colum shakes his head.

“I ken about that,” he snaps. “It’s - it’s never – at all –”

He cannot finish, and goes striding about the room, limping viciously as if to punish himself. Dougal feels a coldness settling over her body.

“Never?” she asks incredulously. “Not once?” Colum laughs bitterly.

“Never, not even once,” he affirms, voice like acid. “As soft as a baby’s arse, and about as bloody useful.” Dougal winces, and Colum sees. “Don’t ye dare pity me!” he bellows at once, his face purple. “Don’t ye dare, ye wee bitch –”

Dougal doesn’t hesitate. She steps forward and catches her brother in her embrace, holding his arms down so he cannot flail about and strike her. “I don’t,” she promises him, breathing it into his ear, holding his face to the curve of her neck to muffle his expletives. She’s stronger than him, but still he struggles, bitterly, as if to overcome her would be to overcome the world. “I don’t, Colum, I don’t, I promise.”

He fights her until he wearies, until his insults and vicious curses turn to awful, broken sobs that wrack Dougal’s heart, and then she holds him still.

“Don’t worry,” she tells him, holding his slumped body in her arms. “Don’t worry, brother. I’ll fix it.”

Isn’t that her job?

 

It has been several years since Dougal’s first flight into the wilderness to escape the burden of her femininity, but it had not been the last. She frequently wanders off for a day or two, sometimes more, armed with blade and pistol. Sometimes she brings herbs for the kitchen, sometimes rabbits. Once there had been a wild boar – even her father had expressed astonishment when, at the tender age of thirteen, she’d returned leading her horse, the ugly beast tied to her saddle. They’d dined well that night.

On one such exploration, ranging to the north, she’d come across a small hut tucked under trees. Dougal, thirteen and curious, had dismounted to peer in a window. The hut was empty, but such things she’d seen as she’d looked in; severed rabbit’s feet hanging from the ceiling, potions and bottles lining shelves, a fireplace hung with strange charms. It could only be a witch’s dwelling, Dougal had concluded, and had returned to her horse and ridden off in the opposite direction. Sorceresses were not to be trifled with.

Strange, to be returning.

Dougal’s first view of the hut is its thatched roof and little chimney, and the puffs of smoke coming from it. Her heart gives an odd, sickening lurch, and it takes all her courage to tie her horse to a nearby tree, to approach the door. She had intended to knock, but the door is pulled open while she is still six feet from the hut.

The witch’s eyes are black like dark gems, in a face like a winter apple, wizened and red. She is smiling, showing every gap between her teeth, hollows in her mouth.

Dougal is terrified. She wants nothing more than to run away screaming.

But Colum.

“Good afternoon, Mistress,” she says instead, as polite as she knows how to be. “Might ye be a practitioner of the dark arts? I have a bargain to make with ye.”

The witch regards her for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is hoarse as a crow’s, dark as ink. “Come to see if I can give you a wee cock, my lass?” she leers. Dougal laughs aloud, and it seems to give the hag pause.

“I dinnae think so,” she chuckles. “I cannae imagine a thing worse. Nay, it isnae my cock I’ve come to see ye about.”

The witch – for surely she can be nothing else – gestures for her to come inside. Dougal follows into the dark, low-ceilinged, musty smelling hut, trying desperately not to sneeze. The hag sits down in the comfortable chair before the fireplace and waves a knobbly hand for Dougal to take the wooden one. Dougal sits, and finds her spine assailed by a thousand painful knots; her arse is bruised within moment. Dougal tosses a brief glance over her shoulder; the chair had not seemed so uncomfortable from sight alone…

Still, if this is a test, it is one Dougal intends to pass. She leans back, feeling as if her body is being pierced by blades. “Thank ye for yer hospitality, Mistress,” she says, and smiles.

 

In the years to come, Dougal will try not to think overmuch about the bargain she makes that day, with the witch. She leaves the hut with a small glass vial, barely large enough to hold a dram’s worth of clear liquid. “One drop,” the witch had counselled. “Two will kill him.” Dougal had eyed the vial with suspicion.

“It looks like water,” she’d said. The witch had shrugged.

“It is not aqua vitae, my dear, but it will do your lover well enough. Be warned, though. All magic comes with a price, and this is deep magic, Dougal Mackenzie. The kind that changes destiny. You may not like what comes of it.”

Dougal had left, with her prize wrapped in a length of cloth to protect it, tucked in a pocket close to her heart.

She arrives back at Castle Leoch the next day around lunch. She greets her parents – Jacob unbothered, her mother strained but smiling – and bathes, getting rid of the scent of horse and leather. And something deeper, something foul and dark, the stench of the witch and her brews.

The brew Dougal has in her pocket.

She finds Colum in his room, reading. “Where the hell have ye been?” her brother asks without lifting his eyes from his book.

“Went tae find a bit of magic,” Dougal answers. That has Colum looking up, although he doesn’t look impressed.

“Did ye find it in a glen?” he inquires. “Floating on the surface of a loch, perhaps?” Dougal scowls at him.

“Nay, I promised a witch a favour,” she replies. “She didnae specify what kind. Probably end up murdered and cooked in a stew.” She withdraws the vial. “Drink this.” Colum recoils like she’s proffering a live snake.

“What is it?” he asks, eyeing the small ampoule in distaste. Dougal huffs.

“It’ll give ye a cockstand, ye daft prick, don’t ye want tae be like everybody else?” Colum shakes his head.

“Not if it comes at the price of my sanity!” he snaps. “All I’ve got is my wits, Dougal, can ye not see that?” Dougal crosses her arms.

“And me,” she tells him mildly. “Ye’ve got me, or have ye forgotten that?” Colum sags.

“No,” he admits. Dougal touches his arm. “It’s probably just water anyway,” he mumbles to himself. Dougal hides a smile.

“Just try it,” she snaps at him, the better to make him think she might be cross. “If it’s just water, it willnae harm ye.” Colum scowls.

“Witchcraft,” he mutters dourly, but sticks out his tongue. With infinite care, Dougal shakes out a single drop, and Colum swallows.

Dougal recorks the vial, watching her brother closely. “Do ye feel any different?” she asks. Colum shakes his head.

“No,” he replies, and that appears to be that.

They sit down to chess, because Dougal needs the practise. Colum thrashes her easily the first game; they’re halfway through the second when Colum starts squirming. Dougal lifts her eyes from the board. “What’s the matter with ye?” she questions. Colum’s eyes are half closed; his breathing has picked up.

“I dinnae ken,” he says, and wriggles a bit in his chair. “It’s strange –”

Dougal’s eyes drop to where there’s a prominent bulge in Colum’s kilt. “Ah, brother,” she says, and when Colum meets her eye, looks obviously down.

So does Colum.

Dougal wishes she could draw, to keep the memory of his expression alive forever. Colum looks stunned, bewildered, and just the beginning of hope, like something coming alive. “It cannae be,” he says, and Dougal grins, as bright and fierce as the summer sun, her heart flowing over.

“I’ll be damned,” she says, and Colum’s eyes are on fire, grey like the clouds that herald an oncoming storm, and just as dark.

“Dougal, you are mad,” he tells her, but he’s standing, walking carefully around the chessboard, and hauling her up into his arms.

This is how the first time happens: Dougal, splayed on Colum’s lap, her hands gripping the arms of his chair, easing herself down onto his prick, drunk off the sounds he makes and the thick length of him inside her. This is the first: rapid, messy and intoxicating, the kisses all teeth and tongue, kilt ruched up around her hips, Colum’s big hands on her arse, drawing her closer, rocking himself deeper into the heat of her, until Dougal is certain they can stay this way forever, locked closer than close. Colum can’t believe it’s real, telling her so in a ragged gasp, his mouth sucking bruises into her throat, his eyes like thunder made flesh.

That is the first.


End file.
